


Khepresh

by coldcobalt



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Gen, canon adjacent?, chess is a mystery, egregious abuse of cardgame metaphors, light body horror, pre-duelist kingdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldcobalt/pseuds/coldcobalt
Summary: Now you are nothing but the shadow of a child, a worm in a fresh-picked apple; a secret second self.Yami’s awakening must have been a little horrifying, come to think of it.





	Khepresh

**Author's Note:**

> Here's that YGO body-horror fic that nobody asked for!

Yugi strides down a bustling Domino City sidestreet, a hundred conversations buzzing in the humid air. It’s a barely midday, but the pavement burns blindingly white under the overhead sun.

For you, Yugi’s nameless, faceless double, this new era is an exercise in patience. The sounds seem too loud, the colors too bright, the language you somehow speak lies false and bitter on your tongue.

After the yawning emptiness of the puzzle, each new detail is overwhelming; the world is a tangle of stimuli you cannot comprehend. It’s a game in itself: you must play your hand exactly right or it will crumble to nothingness in your borrowed hands.

“Hey,” Yugi says cheerily, voice booming through your soul room. “I can feel you awake in there.” He taps his forehead with a pointer finger. “Everything okay?”

As if his concern means anything at all.

\---------

This shared body is the puzzle’s last cruel joke. Your memory has been worn to almost nothing, a moth-chewed shroud gnawed to shreds, but you remember _ruling_ , a golden staff in your clenched fist, the firm weight of a crown heavy on your brow.

Now? Now you are nothing but the shadow of a child, a worm in a fresh-picked apple; a secret second self.

(The face you see in the mirror—round-cheeked, soft-planed—is _wrong_. It’s a facade, a mask. You want to pick at its seams with your borrowed fingernails until they catch, rip the whole falsity off with a single pull)

Yugi doesn’t seem to sense your distaste. He talks constantly, an unbroken string of giddily nervous anecdotes, stories, observations. Like someone unused to having an audience but desperate to keep one.

And so: two weeks into your new existence, you look through the eyes of a child as he walks through an alien city, humidity a thick blanket on shoulders that are not yours. Yugi is silent, waiting for your answer.

You say nothing. The grass lining the road is a garish green.

“It’s okay, other me," he says, "we’re almost there. You like games, right?” 

 

\---------

The arcade is worse than the city street. It’s a maelstrom of neon lights, rows upon rows of chiming machines. At least the humidity is gone.  
Over in the corner, three people wave at your host excitedly.

Yugi’s friends are a puzzle unto themselves, one you can’t quite figure out. Their fast-paced conversations are two-parts yelling, one part friendly insults, one-part shared jokes that are completely impossible to parse. They’ve clearly known each other a long time.

Yugi is the youngest, the newest, a frail and awkward wild card that doesn’t exactly fit with the rest of the triad. The raw joy in his voice when his new friends speak to him makes you feel something almost like pity.

 

“Yuug—!” the blond one yells, slapping Yugi’s back so hard that, even inside the soul room, your vision judders. “Whoops, sorry bud. Thanks for comin’!”

You hate this golden haired boy; you seethe with indignance towards all of these hyperactive children. They can jostle and hug and fight and _live_ , their faces flushed red with living blood...and you are nothing, nameless. A wraith bound to a pyramid of gold.

“You got here just in time” Joey babbles, not stopping, “Tristan got the fastest time in ChessMaster and I have five bucks riding on someone beating him.”

“No chance, bud!” Tristan yells, “I’m the _king_ of ChessMaster!”  
The console in front of him is more subdued than the rest of the machines, the display a simple grid with black and white icons.

“Tell ‘em, Tea!” he says, slapping the side of the seat with an open palm.  
The machine whirrs. The tall girl next to him rolls her eyes.

“Not everything needs to be a competition, you know” she says, and both Tristan and Joey guffaw in response. “Ugh, you two are hopeless.”

“Yugi,” she says, turning to face your double, all smiles, “do you want to give it a go?" 

 

\---------

Yugi sits at the console, too-round face that is _wrong, not yours_ reflecting in the glass-covered display. The puzzle thumps against the scuffed plastic stool as Yugi presses button after button, and the game begins.

This is the only thing to make sense in this overwhelming world.

Games are rigid, regimented things, abstract concepts given form by the weight of their rules. No room for overwhelming ambiguity, no grey ocean of indecision warped by open-ended questions. In games, players must walk the tight path between set boundaries, a labyrinthine course of perfect intent. There is only ever room for one winner.

You can think of no better way to measure a person.

A button is pressed, a game piece cuts a hooked swath across the black-and-white field and disappears. Something chirps discouragingly.

“Aw, Yuug, you lost your knight.” Tristan moans.

 _Senat_ , something in the recesses of your memory whispers, then falls silent. A pattern in the movement of the pieces begins to reveal itself, pristine and perfect, the path towards victory unfolding before your eyes.

“Sorry” Yugi grins humorlessly, voice low. “Guess I’m nervous. I’m, uh, not used to having an audience.” He slumps on the stool, shoulders curled, picking at his half-chewed fingernails, and even you can feel the swell of self-conscious discomfort radiating off him in waves.

These nerves will ruin him. He will lose to the machine.

Shared body or no, you do not _lose._

In a low voice, you whisper a path forward: _pawn to A4, rook to C8, hook your remaining knight around the machine's defenses before it has the ability to react._

_Take its king._

 

\---

The beaming smile that Yugi makes when he wins, buoyed up by the shouted encouragement of his friends and the light pressure of Joey’s hand on his shoulder—it doesn’t influence you at all.

You do not feel an unwelcome pang of quiet joy. You don’t feel your formless spirit half-smile in return.

 

\---

The tucked-away corner table is dark and mercifully quiet. Yugi’s friends sift through piles of hard won-spoils, chattering and eating.

“I can’t believe you got so many tickets!” Tea says, beaming, and it’s true: Yugi’s pile is by far the largest. Thanks to you.

Tristan picks at a greasy pastry with practiced teenage hands. “What’re you thinking of getting with ‘em? The prize stand has some sweet remote-control cars.”

“I dunno” Yugi says, mouth full of convenience-store noodles, “I’ve been eyeing those Duel Monster sets. They have those new booster packs, the one that Grandpa didn’t get yet.”

“Ooh! Duel Monsters!” Tea says, rummaging in her backpack. “That reminds me! I finally finished putting my deck together.” She places a neat pile of cards on the table, reverently.

She flips over one card, two—

—and something in the ruin of your lost memory finally falls into place.

 

You see pyramids of cold stone, the warm flare of gold, an ornate burial chamber with its door grinding shut. A chasm of stars erupts over a river delta, and you are struck with the vertigo of millennia.

“Oh!” Yugi squeaks, “I brought mine too.”

He pulls out a stack of his own: thin cardstock with brown backs. The spot in the center is the pitch black of an eclipse, of the puzzle’s interior, a closed eye with hidden secrets.

“Want to take your deck for a spin?” he says, and the game is on.

 

Your other self fans the cards out in his hands and if you had a chest of your own, the air would be driven from it, because you can almost _remember—_

_By Obelisk, Slifer, Ra: I bind you and I seal you—_

_(—seven stone statues, jewelry-draped, wrought-gold eyes flaring in torchlight—)_

_(—the roar of monsters in the infinite dark—)_

Yugi puts down Summoned Skull in defense mode—a _beginner’s_ mistake, never open with your strongest card—and your cold apathy finally, finally breaks.

“I would like to play this round.” you say, voice echoing in the stagnant silence of the soul room, and Yugi acquiesces.

\---------

The switch is a whirlwind of sudden sensation: a shift in your center of gravity as you are pulled to solid form, the thick heaviness of your limbs as they weave through sleeve and flesh and bone. The puzzle howls with barely-contained glee and a dull pulse begins to beat in your ears, the slow lub-dub of a living body.

Funny. You’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a heart.

You pick up the cards with your too-small hands, and wait.

 

\---------

Victory only takes six turns.

 

\---------

Later, under your tutelage, Yugi will defeat a world champion, win a tournament and an unprecedented fortune, will gain a crown of his own as the new king of games. He will gain confidence and will smile easily, and will wear his new friendships on his sleeves like badges of honor. You will count yourself among them.

You will learn to share his face.

Perhaps games are not the only things that make sense, after all.


End file.
